


Being Richie

by twitchytozier



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Boys In Love, Caring Richie Tozier, Cute Eddie Kaspbrak, Cuties, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, First Kiss, Gay Richie Tozier, Good Parent Maggie Tozier, Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Richie Tozier, Pining Richie Tozier, Reddie, Richie Tozier Has ADHD, Richie Tozier Has a Crush on Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier in Love, Romantic Fluff, Self-Acceptance, Soft Richie Tozier, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:21:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22502440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twitchytozier/pseuds/twitchytozier
Summary: He let out a cute wheeze. “Alright, Rich. Lemme go, will you? I’m gonna’ need my aspirator if you squeeze me any harder.” I barked with laughter, pulling back to see his frowning face.So cute.“You taste like cherries,” I teased, pinching his cheeks.His face blushed bright red. “Shut up! No, I don’t!”or, a short story told from Richie's point of view of his first kiss and how he came to accept his sexuality and feelings for Eddie.(this is kinda bad but hopefully y'all like it)
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 18
Kudos: 129





	Being Richie

I should have been born a girl. I’m not the only one that thinks so. My mother had wished it before even becoming aware of my existence. She was so sure of it she’d never even bothered to find out the gender when she became pregnant.

“ _I’m telling you,_ ” she’d tell my dad, “ _i_ _t’s a girl. I know it._ ”

She says she could feel it; a beautiful baby girl that she could put in dresses and bows and everything sweet. She’d be timid, gentle, and quiet, the image of femininity. No one but them would understand the bond they shared. You can imagine the disappointment she felt when I came out instead. Dad is reluctant to tell me the story of how I was born, which speaks for itself. I’m glad I was too young to see the expression on her face when the doctor handed me to my mom. It likely mirrored the horror of a mother who’d lost her child. Having a boy was about as good as having no baby at all. She’ll never admit it, but I know it’s true. She was so sure I’d be a girl. _So_ sure.

I imagine her holding me for the first time, fear and resentment in her eyes, the penis between my legs a cruel reminder that screamed _"Ha! I’m a boy! A rough, dirty, **loud** boy. Forget about the dresses and tea parties! All you’ll get is comic books, raunchy jokes, and scuffed knees!"_

There was a small glimmer of hope she’d had that maybe, even if I was a boy, I’d still want to play dress up and enthusiastically whisk cake batter as we baked sweets together, but it was quickly gone when she heard the way I cried; unrelenting and deafening. She had wanted a child who would be docile and kind, that would carry herself with poise. My ear-splitting cries were the final nail in the coffin of that fantasy. She knew I’d be a boisterous and excitable child and it broke her heart. I would cry and cry for hours on end. I like to think I cried that seemingly infinite amount of tears to make up for all the times I would hold them back as I grew older.

As I did eventually grow older, my mom tried her best to tuck away the disdain she felt for something as trivial as what was between my legs. It faded away with time, but deep down it was always there. Like when she’d sigh in exasperation when she’d see my dirt-smudged face and soggy sneakers after a day of playing in the Barrens with Bill and Eddie, or the subtle shake of her head when I’d exaggeratedly perform for my dad as Buford Krissdrivel or Wyatt the Homicidal Bag Boy. To the average person, those small actions meant nothing, but I could read into exactly what they meant.

They said _‘Richie, why do you have to be so **rough**? Why do you have to be so **loud**? Why can’t you just be quiet? Stop yelling, Richie. Sit still, Richie!’_

For a while, I tried to answer those questions of why I was _this_ and why I wasn’t _that_ , but could only come up with one answer: _Because I’m Richie._ Being loud and inappropriate was a fundamental part of who I was. I felt sorry that I couldn’t be what she wanted me to be, but I’d feel even sorrier if I tried to be something I wasn’t.

There’d be the odd times I’d notice my mom in the backyard, clipping up our laundry quietly, and I’d go out there and help her; cracking jokes the whole time. I remember the way she’d laugh and tell me to cut it out when I’d put one of her bras on top of my shirt, a sheet wrapped around my body like a dress as I spoke in my overly seductive Bond girl voice. She pretended to be annoyed, but I could tell by the way she bit her lip she was stifling laughter.

The wall between us started to crumble when I sat down with her one night while she was knitting and asked her if I could join. The way her face glowed with pleasant surprise fueled my need for the positive attention I sought out through jokes and kooky voices. At that moment I realized I could still be Richie, a _boy_ , and bond with my mom through what I knew best: humor.

She patted the spot next to her on the couch and handed me a pair of needles and yarn, lightheartedly scolding me when I shoved them in my mouth like fangs, doing a pathetic impression of Dracula. I did try to knit and unsurprisingly had no fucking idea what I was doing, but it felt nice to see that warm smile on my mom's face as she watched me fumble the needles with innocent fingers.

Things started to change again when I turned twelve, or in other words when I hit puberty. I was a dorky child with disproportionately long legs, buck teeth, and coke bottle glasses; all things that I would be relentlessly teased for by Bowers and his goons. Comments about my physical appearance never bothered me because those were all things I could grow out of. What struck a chord within me was when they’d call me a _queer_ or a _faggot_. When it was something about yourself that you couldn’t change, that’s when it hurt. Bowers had called all of us a fairy one time or another, but it felt so much more real when he directed it at me, that glint in his eyes as if he knew.

Whenever I’d become uncharacteristically quiet, Bill would comfort me, a strong hand patting my shoulder, his gentle voice saying, “Hey, d-don’t sweat it, Rich. It’s n-not like it’s true.”

I’d have to shrug his hand off my shoulder and flash a smile, afraid he’d feel me shaking. Those words would echo in my skull longer than any of the names I’d been called.

_It’s not like it’s true._

My mom likely knew before I did. She’d have that knowing glint in her eyes, that was kind and loving, unlike Bowers, whenever I’d ask if Eddie could sleepover. “That’s fine, dear. Is anyone else staying over?” she’d ask, skilled hands working her knitting needles.

I would shake my head, “Nope, just Eddie.”

She’d look up at me, her eyes soft. That look always made my stomach flip-flop, because it said, ‘ _do you need to tell me something, Richie?_ ’

I’d always skitter away, afraid she’d actually say it and I’d be forced to admit something I was barely able to admit to myself.

There was one night in particular when I knew that she knew. It was during a movie marathon with the Losers. We were watching the new Nightmare on Elm Street, much to Eddie and Stan’s dismay. I was sitting at the end of the couch next to Eddie. Next to him was Bill and then Mike. Bev and Ben were on the love seat and Stanley sat on the recliner. The four of us were squashed on the small couch, making Eddie and I’s thighs press up together. Eddie’s shorts came up just above his midthigh, the warm exposed skin pressed against my own. His small hands laid in his lap, the one closest to me clutching his aspirator.

My cheeks were pink and blushy, luckily hidden by the dim light. I remember the scent of buttery popcorn and Eddie’s strawberry shampoo and the way my heart hammered in my chest every time he’d scrunch up his face and lean into me when something gross would happen on screen. It made me feel like I’d been punched in the gut the way all the air would push out of my lungs. I remember how much I wanted to hold his hand at that moment, to clutch it in my own and squeeze it tight. I imagined him looking up at me, chocolatey eyes so big and soft, then down at our clasped hands and his cheeks would blush with embarrassment. He wouldn’t scowl or rip his hand away, but rather smile sheepishly and squeeze mine back. But I was afraid. Afraid of what others would think. Afraid of what _Eddie_ would think.

If Eddie were to look at me with the same disgust Bowers did, the look that would scream ‘ _Rich the bitch! He’s a dirty fag!’_ I didn’t know what I’d do. Die, probably. Die of shame and humiliation.

So instead, I swallowed those feelings that were desperately trying to slip out of the most vulnerable recesses of my heart and tucked my hands beneath my thighs. I’d always done that when I felt like I couldn’t control myself and might accidentally reach out and grab one of Eddie’s hands. That didn’t stop my eyes from flickering to him every ten seconds, though. I tried not to stare, but it was futile. The way his lip balm glistened on his soft, pink lips, and his feathery eyelashes bloomed up, brushing the bottom of his brows made it impossible not to stare.

Eventually, he’d started to doze off, his chestnut curls tickling my ear as his head bobbed to the side with fatigue. My face flushed. Like always, I concealed the fact that I was flustered by teasing him.

“Aw, is it past Eddie-bear’s bedtime? Did me and Mrs. K keep you up last night?”

He elbowed my side hard, making me snicker. “Shut up, asshole.” He rested his head on my shoulder, eyes fluttering shut, and for once, I actually did.

My face was probably as red as the strawberries in his shampoo, which smelled so sweet and feminine beneath my nose. Eddie had no idea what that meant to me, to be able to have him so close without fear of judgment. My heart felt like a hot ember glowing in my chest. I looked up towards the kitchen when I heard the soft clink of a glass being set on the countertop. My mom’s eyes locked with mine.

She knew. I knew she knew because her eyes were swimming with affection, but mostly sympathy. She knew that I liked Eddie the way the other Losers liked Bev. It was then she probably wished I was a girl more than ever, and this time it wasn’t for her sake, but mine. If I was a girl, I’d be able to hold Eddie’s hand the way I wanted to hold it. Being a boy meant I’d have to hear things no one, especially a child, should ever have to hear. We both knew what happened to boys like me in Derry. Boys who liked other boys. But when I felt the tender press of Eddie’s thigh against mine and the weight of his head on my shoulder, it didn’t matter that I was a boy. I wanted to hold his hand as Richie; the boy that had an unreasonable amount of love in his innocent heart for Eddie Kaspbrak.

She smiled, nodded her head, then started up the stairs to her bedroom. The conversation I knew would have to happen eventually tugged dully at the back of my mind, but at that moment, nothing mattered but the boy sleeping on my shoulder. _My boy_.

A few days later, on a particularly sweltering day that fervent summer, Eddie had biked over to my house for some lemonade. His mom never let him have anything sugary so it was usually me who’d supply him with it, giving him my Twizzlers or jelly beans whenever his mom wasn’t around. He’d screech at me that my teeth would fall out of my skull whenever I’d drink a glass of Coke, yet would quickly stuff his face with whatever leftover candy I’d send his way. Ever since Eddie had complimented my mom’s lemonade, she was adamant about me inviting him over for a glass every Saturday. Being me, I was never opposed to it, but I did wonder what her motive was.

Did she want me to invite Eddie over because she felt bad his mom kept him sheltered or was it because she knew I wanted to be around him? I found out the answer when I’d gone back into the kitchen to put Eddie and I’s empty lemonade glasses into the sink. We’d unashamedly drank the entire pitcher. Even with all that sugar in his system, that little shit still whined that he wanted more. Being incredibly whipped I was quickly creating an ungodly sundae for the two of us (mostly Eddie). My mom strolled up behind me, asking if Eddie liked the lemonade.

“You bet your fur, he did! He’ll never admit it, but Eds goes bonkers for sugar.”

She laughed, motioning at the monstrous bowl of ice cream. “I can see that. Is that for the both of you?”

I dipped my finger in the chocolate cream, licking it off. “You betcha’.”

“Only one spoon?”

I’d felt self-conscious suddenly as if sharing wasn’t something Eddie and I had always done. “We always share,” I responded simply.

Her smile was playful. “Isn’t Eddie weird about germs? He must like you a whole awful lot to share a spoon.”

I chuckled nervously, the thought suddenly high-jacking my mind. She was right. Hell would probably freeze over before Eddie would share a spoon with someone else, even another loser, but he never hesitated with me. It was like second nature to share everything; food, clothes, comic books. It made me feel special. Like I was somehow the luckiest kid in the world because Eddie Kaspbrak would put the same spoon that was in my mouth in his. For once, it made me not feel dirty. He made me feel clean. A blush had crept across my cheeks. My mom was giving me a knowing look.

“He likes you, Richie,” she said softly, brushing some stray hairs from my eyes.

I laughed nervously, “I sure hope so, he’s upstairs playing my GameBoy.”

She shot me a look. My stomach churned, the ice cream making my insides a sugary twist of anxiety. “He’s...he doesn’t like-” I cleared my throat, embarrassed.

“Do you. . ?” she said, her voice just above a whisper. I looked up at her pleadingly, not wanting to say it. That was enough for her. “That’s okay. Richie. You know that, right?”

My eyes flipped between her and the ground. I hesitated. “Really...?”

She nodded. “Don't you ever let anyone tell you what love is supposed to look like. Never be ashamed of love. Promise me you won't be ashamed, Rich?”

I promised I wouldn't.

I remember being embarrassed, but more than anything feeling loved and accepted. It was hard for both of us to talk about it, but she knew it was important to me. She knew I was struggling and gave me the reassurance I needed. That small conversation became vital in the acceptance of myself. Quickly, I’d brought that bowl of slightly melted ice cream back up to my room. Eddie was sat on my bed, excitedly jamming the buttons on my Gameboy.

_My bed. My GameBoy._

He’d flashed me a boyish grin, nodding me over. “What took you so long, Trashmouth?”

That feeling was back; my heart trying to flutter out of my chest like a freakin’ wounded pigeon. My mom’s words echoed in my head

_It’s okay, Richie._

I beamed at Eddie, taking a seat next to him. I scooped a spoonful of ice cream into my mouth, then handed him the spoon. He did the same. “Why are you looking at me like that, you weirdo? Did you hit your head when you were down there?” I’m sure the fondness in my eyes was extremely noticeable, whether Eddie recognized it as that or not.

“Why do you share a spoon with me, Eds?” I asked.

His brows knit together in annoyance at the nickname, softening as he looked away and shrugged. “Because it’s you.”

My mouth was slightly ajar, watching Eddie nonchalantly lick melted ice cream from his spoon like he hadn’t said words I’d reminisce about for the rest of my life. When his eyes connected with mine I knew that I was in love with Eddie Kaspbrak; the boy that was more special to me than anything in this world. The dorky kid who didn’t give a single shit if people made fun of his Thunder Cats shirt or his fanny pack. He was brave and smart and the only one that could keep up with my jokes. I loved his nerdy sneakers and his bony knees. I loved his mischievous eyes and the boyish slope of his small shoulders. I knew it was impossible for the way I felt to be wrong. It didn’t make sense for some higher power to give me the ability to love someone that much and say it was wrong. I wasn't ashamed of my love. I promised I wouldn't be. I couldn't be, even if I tried. 

“You’re cute, you know that?” I tell him.

His eyes widened and his cheeks flushed. He shoved my head away. “Shut up, Richie!”

I ruffled his hair, making him swat at me. I trained my eyes on the lava lamp on my desk, unable to keep looking at him in fear I’d say something stupid. “Okay.”

Eddie let out a small ‘hmph’, likely not expecting that. We could usually bicker for hours. I heard him set the bowl of ice cream down on my nightstand. In the corner of my eye I could see he was looking at me, brows furrowed. He knocked my knee with his own, stopping when I didn’t look at him. My breath hitched in my throat when I felt a thin finger ghost over the top of my hand. I looked down at our hands next to each other on the mattress. My palm lay pressed into the sheets while Eddie’s was flipped over, his palm facing up, like an invitation for me to hold it. I looked at him, seeing his gaze drawn to our hands, clearly waiting for something to happen.

_Don’t be afraid, Richie. Be brave like Eddie._

So I did. I timidly placed my hand on top of his, not holding it but instead lining our fingers up like Tarzan and Jane. Eddie was the one to intertwine our fingers. Holding his hand was everything I imagined it to be. His hands felt like velvet. They were warm and soft like honey. My sticky, slender fingers seemed to consume Eddie’s smaller ones, yet we fit so nicely. A coy smile pulled at my lips.

“I’ve always wanted to hold your hand,” I muttered, too awestruck to be embarrassed. It felt safe to be honest and vulnerable with Eddie. If there was anyone I was most comfortable to be my true self around, it was him. The air swished as Eddie quickly turned his head to look at me. I gulped, looking down at our hands rather than in his eyes.

_Please don’t break my heart, Eddie. Tell me you feel the same way, Eddie._

My thoughts were broken by a warm, wet kiss on my cheek. I probably looked like a fish with my mouth gaping open, my eyes bugged impossibly wider behind my specs. Eddie had kissed my cheek. I turned to look at him. His face was flushed and his eyes were wide and panicked as if he didn’t mean to do that. But I knew he did.

 _He likes you, Richie,_ my moms' voice said.

The cheek Eddie had kissed felt warm and tingly. I never wanted to forget how soft his lips felt on my skin. The air between us was tingling with energy. Before I could say something stupid, I clumsily pressed my lips to his cheek. I was so nervous that I accidentally kissed the corner of his mouth, just barely missing his plump lips. Eddie turned his head away sheepishly, a nervous giggle bubbling past his lips. I watched him tuck his knees up to his chest, his hand never leaving mine. My heart soared. I wanted to hug and kiss him or tell him how pretty he was. I kissed the tip of his blushing ear. His hazelnut curls tickled my nose.

Eddie turned to look at me, his features were so gentle and innocent. I thought I’d choke on my own tongue when he nudged my nose with his. The lip balm he was wearing smelled like cherries. It made my head spin.

Using his free hand, he pushed my falling glasses back up my nose. “Can I thank you for the lemonade, Rich?” he asked, his hand hovering above my jaw, unsure if he should place it there.

I spluttered, hoping to god he was saying what I thought he was saying. “Uh, yeah. Sure? I mean, yes! _Please_. . .” He cradled my jaw and I leaned into it. Like every other part of Eddie, it was incredibly soft. But nothing was as soft as his lips.

Gently, he pressed his lips to mine in a delicate kiss. It was embarrassing how much I wanted to cry. Eddie was kissing me. _On the lips_. It was an innocent lingering peck, but it held so many emotions that I had kept locked up for so long.

My eyes fluttered open as he pulled away. Our flushed faces were barely an inch apart. I licked my lips, tasting Eddie’s fruity lip balm. I wanted to kiss him again. He peered up at me with round doe eyes, an embarrassed smile on his face. Quickly, he pecked my lips again. “Thank you, Richie.”

I beamed like an idiot, my heart bursting with emotions I couldn’t explain. This was it for me. It didn’t matter that I was a twelve-year-old boy who could barely comprehend algebra, let alone love; I knew I wanted to be with Eddie. I knew that he was more important to me than I was able to express with words. So I wrapped my arms around him in a bone-crushing hug. He wheezed in protest but eventually coiled his thin arms around my waist. Our chests pressed together and I knew he could feel my heartbeat, beating erratically like a boy in love. It was okay because I could feel his too, thumping quickly with my own. I squeezed him tighter, never wanting to forget how it felt to hold him and the way his warmth seeped into my skin.

He let out a cute wheeze. “Alright, Rich. Lemme go, will you? I’m gonna’ need my aspirator if you squeeze me any harder.” I barked with laughter, pulling back to see his frowning face.

_So cute._

This time, I pecked him on the lips. “You taste like cherries,” I teased, pinching his cheeks.

His face blushed bright red. “Shut up! No, I don’t!”

His small hands slotted into mine as he tackled me to the bed. We laughed as we wrestled around my floor. It was perfect. To see him laughing under me as I tickled his ribs, unaffected by the fact that I’d kissed him only a minute ago, had my stomach twisting again. Nothing had changed. What I was so afraid of didn’t happen. Things weren’t weird. Eddie didn’t hate me. I wasn’t a freak. I didn’t need to be ashamed of love. The way I felt wasn’t wrong, and I knew it the moment I kissed him. It felt true and honest. It felt _right_. We were two boys with the world out to get us, but it didn’t matter because we had something no one else did. I knew no one could ever love anyone the way I loved Eddie. He was the boy I gave everything to. My first kiss and, later, my first time. I gave him my heart and my soul. I’d give him everything if I could. Being a boy who loved another boy wasn’t easy, but it didn’t matter as long as I had Eddie. Being a girl wouldn’t have made my life easier, it would have just been another lie. I didn’t want to pretend to be someone I wasn’t.

Being Richie was all I needed to be.

**Author's Note:**

> If you got this far, thank you for reading! I referenced the actual book a lot for this, especially pertaining to Richie's mom's feelings about having a boy but kinda put a twist on it. I hope this didn't offend anyone and everyone understood what I meant when I said Richie's mom had wished he was a girl. If you want, leave a comment and tell me what you thought!


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